


TOW They share a bed

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sharing a Bed, TV Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's a penis, John, it cannot think."<br/>"Well mine can. It's pretty spectacular, I should introduce you two some time." John panicked. He blamed the late hour and Sherlock's nudity for saying that.<br/>Or: The inevitable 'Let's sleep together because you have nightmares and then act all surprised when it turns into something more' story, because I love soppy tropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I present the story I (maybe) lost my job over, because instead of writing code I wrote this and then, surprisingly, my bosses weren't so happy with my work anymore. But heck, it was a shit company anyways. That also explains the formatting: I couldn't for the love of me find out how intellij let's me put stuff in italics or bold ;)
> 
> This was written over the course of two months on different occasions and different devices and I tried my best to make it sound as if it was written in one go when I edited it, but where I failed, keep that in mind.
> 
> This story has effectively finished writing, yet I won't post everything now because I'm still editing. I'm not perfectly happy with it yet and it needs some work done.
> 
> Also, keep in mind that it *will* become explicit by chapter 3. Until then, enjoy some minor fluff.

 

The nightmares were back. Damn the woman, Sherlock had worked so hard to free John of them. He's left him in her care for one year and it had all become undone, they were back to full force. To think that he had actually been relieved when he'd found out about her, that he had believed her to be *capable* of caring for John. Never had his trust been so misplaced as in that woman.

It was agonizing. He could *hear* him thrashing about upstairs. Fourth time in seven days. It sounded worse than last time. *How* was he supposed to sleep with that looming over him?

A moment later saw Sherlock through the door of the upstairs bedroom. John had rid himself of the covers. His t-shirt had ridden up partly, leaving most of his back exposed. The track suit bottoms he wore in place of real pyjamas as well, leaving his calves bare. The heating wasn't on as it was the middle of night, in November, leaving the room chilly. John was going to freeze. That added to his already weakened immune system because of his lack of sufficient restful sleep he would come down with a cold within days and gone would be the calm of Baker Street. Sherlock couldn't care for a sick John. It would be so distracting. He'd demand attention and Sherlock would feel pressed to provide it.

He sighed in exasperation. The things you do for your flatmate. Silently he padded over to John's side and put the duvet back over his body, making sure it covered him neck to toe. Now if he would just stop moving and making those pained sounds and go back to sleep, all could be well. As it seemed, John wasn't inclined to do so.

"John," Sherlock said very softly as to not disturb the peace of night around them. Strange how the darkness always brought out the need to whisper. The sound of his name stirred something in John, but it wasn't enough to bring him back from wherever he was. Sherlock tried again.

"John, come on," he whispered and saw his face go from disturbed to less disturbed. His body stilled for a while.

"John, it's me." He sounded soft to his own ears. Ridiculous, it wasn't as if he was trying to not wake him. At last, it was enough. John had calmed down sufficiently. Sherlock stood by his side for a while longer and watched the other man fall into peaceful sleep. He left the room when John started snuggling his pillow to his chest.

* * *

Like a new mother rousing to the slightest sounds of her baby, Sherlock was again awoken two nights later by mitigated sounds coming from the room above his. He gave John two minutes to calm down by himself, really, a grown man like that, a soldier, he should get a grip on himself and stop this ridiculousness. Nightmares were for children. John was safe in Baker Street, Sherlock had taken care of that. He even let Mycroft set up his ludicrous surveillance system once when they were away, just to make sure that John was safe inside at every point of time. Granted, John didn't know about the cameras, but he should know better than be afraid in their home. Sherlock rose to his feet when it became obvious John couldn't handle this particular dream on his own.

Once more Sherlock found himself by John's bedside. He spoke to him at once, the results last time being promising for this to be the right approach.

"John, it's me," he said in the soft voice that had worked just two nights ago. However, it didn't seem to do the trick this time. If anything, it seemed to worsen the sleeping man's distress.

"Let me through," John groaned, pushing at invisible people, fighting against the air around him. Sherlock reached out for his right wrist before he could hurt himself accidentally. That only seemed to aggregate John. Blindly he snapped for Sherlock's hand restraining his and painfully twisted it away from it. His freed hand then knocked him in the arm, hard. That would surely leave a mark there.

"Ow," Sherlock said despite himself. He wondered at John and forcefully pulled his own hand free and absent-mindedly rubbed at the spot John had hit. The man was still working himself into more of a state. Prepared this time, Sherlock grabbed hold of both of John's arms and pinned them to the bed on either side of him. That move turned out to be a mistake. John was livid. Suddenly there was all the strength he normally hid behind a warm smile, innocent blue eyes and hideous jumpers. It was only the grave disadvantage of being asleep that kept him from headbutting Sherlock when he abruptly sat up in his bed. It also woke him up.

"Sherlock?" he asked, sounding seriously disoriented. He looked down at the hands clutching at his arms and tried to put the grip, Sherlock's presence in his room, his room in itself, the adrenaline the dream had left pounding through him and the emotions it had evoked together like pieces of a puzzle. At last it all slid together.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. Sherlock looked at him flabbergasted. The air in the room had changed so fast, from restless to violent, that it had left him speechless for a moment. He even forgot to let go of John's arms. He came around eventually, much slower than he was comfortable to admit. Hesitantly he let go of John.

"It's alright." And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "You had a nightmare." John flashed a bashful smile at him. It really spoke volumes that he had deduced the situation faster than Sherlock.

* * *

The nights were quiet for four days after that. Sherlock could not find rest regardless. He was a bad sleeper at the best of times, but at least his present state allowed him to keep an ear open, so to say, for when John would need him again. Of course, he thought when he heard the unmistakable sounds again coming from upstairs, he had to choose the night Sherlock actually did plan on sleeping for his nightmares to return. Grudgingly he went to look after John.

This time he kept his distance. Tentatively and very quietly he called out John's name, but he knew better now than to touch him. Thankfully, it worked. After three reassuringly muttered "John"s the troubled man stopped moving around and calmed noticeably down. Sherlock sighed relieved. No need to get close. That was good. He spent some more minutes in the room, watching John sleep and ultimately snuggling his pillow to his chest again, just making sure the dreams wouldn't return, before he left for his own room.

* * *

It became routine. Sherlock refused going to his room if he would just have to get up again anyway. John's nightmares usually started within three hours of him retiring to bed. Sherlock kept himself busy, that was no hardship for him, until the three hours had quietly passed. Only then would he turn in.

Of course there were the occasional exceptions to the rule when he would be woken by John's cries at dawn. It was almost automatic now: Hear the sounds, get up and talk to the man until he would sink back into more innocuous dreams. Most nights talking was enough. Other times, Sherlock had to employ touching. Once he tried holding John down by his shoulders but it ended the same way it had the night he had grabbed hold of his arms. Restraining John always made it worse. He would end up awake, confused and ashamed, always apologising. Sherlock merely shrugged it away.

* * *

"What are you doing?" John asked warily. It had been a very long week and he was tired, yet sleep did elude him. He had been tossing about in his bed for more than an hour when the door to his room, only ajar to begin with, opened to let in Sherlock. John propped himself on his elbows and looked at his flatmate questioningly.

"Making sure you're alright." If Sherlock was embarrassed by getting caught where he had no reason to be, he didn't show it.

"Erm, thanks? I'm good," John said nonplussed.

"Good." Sherlock made no move to leave, standing just inside the door and looking unwaveringly at John. Suddenly John remembered all the times within the last several weeks that he had woken up to Sherlock in his room and it dawned on him. How hadn't he seen this earlier?

"Sherlock, are you doing this *every* night?" Quick analysis of his tone of voice showed no anger at what most people would certainly consider an intrusion of privacy. At most he sounded concerned.

"Not *every* night," he averted.

"How often then?"

"Five or six times a week." John pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed tired to Sherlock.

"So, last week when we stayed up all night that one night..."

"Obviously I didn't check up on you then."

"Right. And the other week, when I napped on the sofa while you looked through all those files ...?"

"No need, either."

"Okay. So. When you say five or six times a week, what you're really saying is, you do this every time I actually sleep in my bed."

"Or in any other bed. Really, the bed in question is no variable in the equation." The way Sherlock answered every question told John he was wary, waiting for John to get angry at him, shout maybe. John rubbed his hand over his eyes. He had to be careful how to phrase his next words. He didn't mean to spook Sherlock.

"Good. But why? Sherlock?" He wasn't very good at phrasing things. His tone made up for that. It made Sherlock look down at his hands, appearing so much younger than this years. He looked soft in what little light shone up from downstairs, under the door to John's room. Uncertain. Every time he looked like that it broke John's heart a little. He was used to cocky Sherlock, uncertain Sherlock made John nervous.

"You make such noises," Sherlock said to his hands, his voice so soft. John just looked at him, waiting for more. "Like you suffer. Like you hurt. Sometimes you cry. I -" He shook his head, at a loss for words. But John understood him, maybe understood him better than he understood himself. He reached out his hand to Sherlock.

"Come here," He said and Sherlock did. When he came into reach he took John's outstretched hand and John moved to the side in his bed. With his free hand he lifted his duvet, motioning for Sherlock to get under it. After Sherlock sat down with his back against the wall John put the blanket over his legs and shifted lower until he lay down flat on his side with his face turned to Sherlock.

"You can stay here," John whispered. Sherlock nodded, looking at the door, his body stiff. John sighed and felt like maybe now, he could fall asleep.

* * *

Five or six times a week, John shared his bed with Sherlock from then on. John usually went to bed first. For the first week or so when John was still awake when Sherlock joined him, the detective would sit in the bed, watching over him, even though he was always lying down in the mornings, the rare times John woke up before him. They were very rare indeed. It was ten days after the first night that Sherlock came to bed and lay down directly next to John, as if he had finally mustered enough courage to do so.

It was four weeks until Sherlock went to bed first and he was fast asleep by the time John followed. They had their respective sides on the bed and stuck to them, even on those nights when John knew Sherlock wouldn't be sleeping at all.

One night a second bedside table had appeared in John's room, already laden with papers, books and magazines. He didn't mention it.

His nightmares became less frequent, as far as John could tell. Sometimes he still woke up and Sherlock was always awake next to him, wide-eyed and paler than usual. But they became increasingly rare. John felt he slept better and he was sure it was because of something Sherlock did. He never asked, though, afraid of what it was yet. Sleeping together was surprisingly nice, had become normal in no time flat. But John wasn't yet ready to discuss anything more.

They were finding their routine. One night, neither could sleep. Sherlock was nervous next to John, John could tell, even though he was relatively still. His nervousness was spreading to John and John was just about to ask what was going on, when Sherlock, with a loud sigh, threw himself to his side facing his back and inched closer, laid a hand on his hip. John's breath caught in his throat. He could feel Sherlock's heat against his back, even though the man was touching him nowhere except on his hip, yet he was close enough for his presence to be felt. John let him. He could tell Sherlock was stiff with expected rejection, yet he relaxed a little with every passing minute when none came. John fell asleep before Sherlock became perfectly pliant.

This became part of the routine. Over time Sherlock inched closer until they slept flush against each other, with Sherlock's hand on John's hip or waist or the odd night, on his chest over his heart. They never talked about it. The same way they never talked about the time when John opened his wardrobe and found that most of the space was now taken up by Sherlock's clothes. Instead he just reorganized his things a little. Or how they didn't talk about the fact that the kitchen was now mostly experiment-free. One day, acting upon a suspicion, John walked into Sherlock's room to find most of his science equipment stashed there on a big table John had never seen before. So, new then. He didn't know how to feel about it, because John felt nothing except some sense of pride at having deduced the right site.

So. They were living together now. Really living together.

"Huh," John thought. "I guess I owe some people some money."

They never talked about it because there was nothing to talk about.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been two months since Sherlock had moved his stuff into John's room when he woke up in the middle of the night one day. That was not unusual; John's nightmares had become less frequent, but they hadn't vanished. This time, though, something was different.

For one, John wasn't thrashing about nor moaning nor showing any of the usual signs of distress. And two, his eyes were open and instead of moving restlessly, aimlessly, his left hand was on Sherlock's face, placed there deliberately. John's thumb pressed against his cheekbone with his fingers curled around the large expanse of Sherlock's neck. The index finger stroked little circles into the soft skin behind his ear.

When he saw Sherlock returning his gaze that was incentive enough to drag his open mouth along the side of his jaw. John sneaked close and insinuated his leg between Sherlock's thighs, bringing it carefully higher until the top of his own thigh came into touch with Sherlock's penis through the thin layers of their respective pyjamas. A guttural groan escaped his throat illicitly.

One minute. He'd give John one minute, Sherlock decided. He threw back his head and gave John ample opportunity to do... things... to the hollow of his throat with his fingertips. One minute to wake up, to lend credence to his tale of drowsiness, and then John would have to explain himself. One minute of feeling.

They didn't do this.

And Sherlock had to put a halt to it before his transport took over. Because his head didn't *want* this, but his body, there was no denying what his body wanted. He could feel his cock grow fuller by the second. Feel the urge grow more compelling to flip John over and push his pelvis into his arse and bury his dick between those cheeks, pyjamas be damned. Suck on his neck. Do all the things John did to him, in this very moment. That simply was not feasible.

"John?" he croaked, inwardly wincing at his own voice. If pressed, he could always blame his hoarseness on sleep. John didn't answer, at least not vocally. For an embarrassingly long moment Sherlock allowed the sensation to distract him. Between John's mouth, the soft petting of his hand and positively lovely caresses of his foot to Sherlock's calf that he was just now starting to notice it was difficult to voice the inevitable question.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked when John's hand threatened to reach lower. If John stopped now at least he'd had a minute of this to remember. Then it suddenly hit Sherlock: He *wanted to remember* this. What for? Why? Sherlock didn't do relationships. Was this a relationship? How could he tell when John had never said anything! Were they a couple? Interpersonal relations where John's forte, not Sherlock's. They had a deal, it worked, Sherlock did the science and John did the people, and he so wanted to ask John to explain what was going on here and whether he wanted more, had he always wanted more? Was this John's reason for doing this, this sharing a bed? How was Sherlock supposed to know when John. Wouldn't. Answer?

"John, wait, please stop, what's going on?" As gently as possible in his confusion Sherlock shoved the other man away, mindful of his damn lovely leg, and for the first time got a good look at John's face in the dim light. He looked... different. Strange? No, not strange. Not weird. Not like himself? It was clearly John with all of John's features. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it, but noted that the shoving had a confusing effect on John.

"What?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with big eyes that weren't really like his. Sherlock took a second to study them. It all fell into places.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked calmly. John simply looked at him. Placid. Yes, that's what it was. Calm. As calm as a man who was clearly very aroused could be. But he still didn't answer.

"Do you know who *you* are?" Sherlock asked.

"John," John replied instantly. Sherlock scrutinised him through narrowed eyes.

"Do you know that or are you just repeating what I said?" John took a moment to consider the question and answered, "Yes." It took all of Sherlock's will power not to slap his hand against his own forehead.

"And where are you?" This was the first thing that garnered a real reaction from him. John looked around him, trying to comprehend what he could. It took him alarmingly long to give an answer.

"Bed." Sherlock rubbed his eyes. Not so good.

"Yes. Obviously. But whose bed is this?" he said impatiently and John looked around once more, trying to satisfy the curiosity of the strange man who refused to be seduced by him when John's instinct told him that that was the right thing to do.

"Mine?" he asked but he didn't sound sure at all. Okay. That was it. Time to finally stop this.

"John. You're asleep. Now just... close your eyes and carry on." That earned Sherlock a slightly stupid look but eventually John did as he was told. His whole demeanour was reminiscent of that of a child. His mind wasn't clear, but then again of course not, he was asleep. God only knew what was going on in his head but it was apparent that he didn't grasp a lot of what was going on in the real world around him.

Sherlock ruffled his own hair as he watched the man settle back into the sheets next to him. He noticed his breathing was elevated whereas John's was shockingly fast back to normal as he curled himself around his omnipresent pillow. With his eyes now closed he looked peaceful, restful, hateful because Sherlock envied him his peace of mind. He knew *he* wouldn't be able to find a second more of rest this night.

So he got up.

His traitorous cock hurt in his pants. He punished it with a cold shower.

* * *

'Married to his work'. That's what he had said when he met John. Sherlock didn't do relationships. They were distracting. It was true that he didn't know that from experience, yet there are some things in life you don't need to experience to be sure you don't want them.

Yet here he was. Relationship or not, John commandeered his thoughts in this moment like he did in so many others. It wasn't a recent development. In the beginning he was trying to find out if John suited him, his style of life. Then, after the pool, he felt the insistent urge to make sure he was safe at all times. Sherlock had started following him around to ascertain that. He had even risked his life to safe his. Moriarty had threatened Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as well, but John alone would have sufficed. There wasn't a thing Sherlock wouldn't do for John. He'd even go and buy milk if he were pressed.

Then when Sherlock came back from the dead and he couldn't be sure that he had got all of Moriarty's men he let Mycroft install cameras in their home. No, not *let him*, that's not true. Sherlock had *asked him to*. He had even had GPS trackers set into all of John's shoes and jackets. How could anything be more distracting to Sherlock than John already was?

So what did that all mean? It brought them here, to this day, with their new sleeping arrangements. In the beginning it was to dispel John's nightmares but they hardly ever disturbed him any more. It wouldn't be much longer before gentle, *straight* John would realise there wasn't a reason to keep sleeping together and he would ask Sherlock to move back into his own room again. And what would become of Sherlock then? Now, that he had realised that he didn't object to a relationship with all it entailed any longer? John would marry again, he would move out again, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he could *take* that again.

He was starting to panic from the thought of losing John to a faceless woman and in this state he didn't hear the man himself padding into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?", he asked sleepily and Sherlock recoiled.

"John," he said, jerking around on his chair and fixing wide pale eyes on the other man. "I want a relationship!" He had to say it, now, before it was too late and he too afraid and before John could decide that their sleeping experiment had reached its natural end. "With you," he added as an afterthought, fearing he hadn't been clear enough on the first try.

John looked back at him, dumb.

"Okay," he said at last and it wasn't what Sherlock had hoped for. He looked down at his hands and was silent, swallowing around the lump in his throat that wouldn't go away no matter how often he did it.

John took the chair next to him.

"Sherlock," he started soothingly. His tone of voice hurt.

"No. It's alright. If you don't want to, I mean I won't force you. I... just thought I'd tell you. There. Now you know." Sherlock was still not able to lift his eyes to John's face. He didn't need to, because John took his hand and now Sherlock eyed those, clasped together in his lap. It was a sight, his pale skin against John's darker tone.

"Sherlock." John waited. Sherlock complied and looked at him. John gave him a reassuringly bright smile. "It's okay. I want that, too. I'm just surprised, because, well to be honest, I thought we already *are* in one." John sheepishly ran a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. Sherlock gulped.

"Oh," he said. "Alright." For a moment neither made a sound.

"So, that's settled then?" Sherlock needed the confirmation.

"Yes."

"And, it's just us. No one else?"

"You mean monogamous?" Sherlock nodded in reply. "Of course. No one else," John confirmed.

"You will have me even though we don't have sex?" Sherlock asked not believing him but John was earnest.

"I do want to have sex with you. But not before you're ready for it." He screwed up his face a little. "Is that something you'll ever consider?" he asked then, cautiously. Sherlock needed to lower his gaze again and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes," he whispered as if ashamed. "You... I find you enticing," he said shyly. John squeezed his hand hard.

"Alright," he repeated. It was the weirdest relationship talk he'd ever had, ever weirder than the one in middle school.

"Were you aware that you sleepwalk?" Sherlock asked to direct the conversation towards something else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Headcanon (Fuelled by TGG and ASIB).
> 
> Sherlock follows John around when he's out alone. You could call him a stalker.

 

John had dared to meet up with other friends. He knew he was going to suffer for it in some way. Ever since they were back to living together Sherlock was loath to spend time apart. It wasn't that he ever admitted to it. John had just got terrifyingly good at reading him.

"Don't follow me!" John had said before he left, to which Sherlock had only grunted.

"I mean it. If you want to come, fine. But you have to do it like a normal person, sit at our table and talk and not be a giant git." Sherlock then continued to ignore him like you ignore an annoying kid at a restaurant. "Sherlock."

He left. Sherlock didn't follow him. As far as John could tell.

Honestly, drinking wasn't as much fun as it used to be if you had to be on the constant look-out for your crazy stalker flatmate. Boyfriend? Partner? *Sherlock*?

* * *

Four hours and only two pints but an embarrassingly high number of glasses of water later, John tip-toed into the dark that was now *their* bedroom. If he was being perfectly honest he hadn't anticipated this turn of events. Knowing Sherlock and how fleeting his interests always were it was a marvel that they had made it this far and John couldn't help but be thankful for that.

His happy mood had no chance of survival when he saw his significant bastard sleeping on *his* side of the bed. Part of what made John's nights so much more comfortable now was the set order of their night time routine, including sleeping on the same side of this very bed every night. Which, of course, Sherlock knew. Which, of course, was why he was lying there now, fast asleep. Which, of course, was why he was spread out over almost all the rest of the bed, as if hoping faced with the display John would resign and sleep somewhere else, and poorly at that. As if he thought John was above viciously kicking Sherlock back to his side.

Yeah, fat chance. John rolled his eyes at how transparent Sherlock's manipulative attempts had become for him. All this because John has had some fun without him.

Very quietly and with only the light from the moon falling in through the window, because *he* was a good man, John stripped down to his pants and t-shirt and got into the bed. He drew the covers out from where Sherlock had a death grip on them and snuggled up close to Sherlock's back. That's when he noticed the breathing, too shallow and too frequent to be that of a man asleep. A million things to say immediately ran through John's mind, the politest of them being "Switch sides with me, you arse", but instead he settled for a soft, "Hey" against a shoulder. Sherlock pretended to be dead.

On a normal night they would spoon, with Sherlock behind John. Being Sherlock, of course he had experimented with the different techniques of cuddling and had come up with the perfect way for every situation, always resulting in John relaxing into his arms, no matter where Sherlock's hand stayed for the night, whether it be his leg, hip, or stomach or chest. And John really enjoyed it. Cuddling with Sherlock, he never thought it possible. This night, John would play the big spoon. And he planned to make it memorable, reciprocating what the other man usually did for him.

His hand came down on Sherlock's upturned shoulder to slip down over his rib cage in a hard brush he always savoured, not too hard, down over the dip of his waist and over the hill of his hip, farther along the length of his thigh as far as John could reach, until his fingertips brushed his kneecap and his hand reversed the way back up again. John stopped at the hip to pull them closer together. He arranged Sherlock's motionless, pliant body until he was satisfactorily settled against John's with hardly any space between them at the most distant parts. John's hand stopped over Sherlock's ribs where he splayed his fingers to cover as much space as possible.

"Tease," he whispered against Sherlock's shoulder, the ghost of words a breath against warm skin.

Beside him, the man was stark naked.

* * *

"Go on then, tell me what I'm being punished for," John said amicably a minute later. He had taken to brushing his hand over Sherlock's naked belly. It was presented to him so freely so who was John to deny himself the pleasure of running his fingertips over the smooth, soft skin there. Tickling pleasantly.

"I'm not punishing you." John could hear a pout in that low voice.

"Obviously not. Really, Sherlock? I'm a doctor, I was a bloody *soldier*, you're trying to embarrass me with nudity? That's below par for you."

"I'm not *punishing* you." And really, it spoke volumes that he was repeating himself. Sherlock so hated that. "I merely prefer sleeping in the nude, only I never got the chance recently. How much did you drink?"

"You hoped I'd be uncomfortable and can't you tell?" John was smiling. His forehead rested against Sherlock's shoulder and he pressed a gentle kiss against the shoulder-blade under his lips.

"Two pints." Sherlock shivered.

"Excellent guess. Two."

"I never guess."

"Yeah you do." His fingers carded through the soft hair on Sherlock's belly. Against his chest John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat pick up through his back.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting," John said some ten minutes later. He was on the verge of falling asleep but Sherlock was constantly moving against him, trying to find a better position and it was fast becoming very distracting.

"I'm trying to get comfortable." He sounded accusing, as if John had decided their switch of sleeping positions and not Sherlock himself.

"Yeah well, let's put it like this: the more comfortable you get, the less *I* get." Sherlock fell still. John knew he was trying to figure out what he was implying and gave a slight push with his hip against Sherlock's arse. He could practically hear the penny drop when the other man came into - better - contact with John's interested prick.

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'. Now go to sleep." But of course John knew it wouldn't be as easy as that.

"Why aren't you embarrassed?" Sherlock requested.

"Why should I? I had some beer, I'm sleepy, in a warm bed, my dick's pressing into a naked arse, what's it supposed to think is going on?"

"It's a penis, John, it cannot think."

"Well mine can. It's pretty spectacular, I should introduce you two some time." John panicked. He blamed the late hour and Sherlock's nudity for saying that.

"Are you flirting with me?" Thankfully, Sherlock sounded more amused than upset.

"No. Go to sleep." The calm lasted not even a whole minute. Sherlock was clever enough to know when John really didn't want to talk. But he couldn't keep still. Before the minute was over, he shifted again, pressing more into John's lap. He wasn't used to a body pressing against his back and tried to find a more natural position.

"I swear to God, if you do that one more time, I'm not going to be held responsible for my actions and it will not be pleasant for you." John's growl was low with equal parts threat, sleepiness and arousal. He knew the chances of Sherlock taking the threat as a challenge were high and started counting the seconds in his head. He made it to nine. Then Sherlock twisted his hips just so that John's cock, in its fabric prison, was clutched perfectly between Sherlock's buttocks. Fun was over.

"Alright," he said.

In the blink of an eye Sherlock was on his stomach, the pillow pulled from under his head and placed under his hips, bumping his arse up into John's groin. John lying on top of him, head to toe, knocking the air right out of Sherlock's lungs with his hands trapped under their combined weight.

"You tell me when to stop, okay?" John whispered directly into his ear and waited for the confirmative nod. He put a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lobe and lost his amiable demeanour.

In a flash John had got rid of his own pants, kept the shirt and kicked the duvet off them. His knees bracketed Sherlock's thighs and pushed them together tightly, making the position still more awkward for Sherlock. His cock was trapped between his legs and the mattress, growing painfully hard, on the verge of agonizing. Sherlock tried to reposition it but John saw the movement of his hand and slapped it away.

"No," he growled. "You brought this on yourself." His cock was already throbbing. Blindly he snatched for Sherlock's bedside table and yanked open the drawer. There, among various other things, he felt a small new bottle and grabbed it. It was lube. It hadn't been there earlier, but John predicted it to be there now and he was right.

"Tosser, you planned this!", he said heatedly. He bit at Sherlock's shoulder, drawing not blood but a low groan. He flicked the little bottle open one-handedly and poured a generous amount of the cold liquid into his hand before throwing the lube to the side. He spread it over his fingers, coating them in it. John brought his hand back to Sherlock's arse and brushed his lube-sticky index finger against his pucker, once, twice, in to the first knuckle. Sherlock arched into his hand as far as he could under the weight and push of John's body.

"You like that, hm?" John asked. Sherlock moaned in confirmation. "Well, too bad. That's not what we're gonna do." John drew his hand back and started stroking his own prick instead. Sherlock complained, John didn't care. When his dick was lubed up, he pressed Sherlock's thighs together even closer and insinuated his cock between them, started stroking it in between them. It was good, hot, a foretaste of what was to come, not nearly enough.

With every in-stroke the head of his prick brushed against Sherlock's balls and John could feel them tighten against him. He pushed harder, faster, arched his back and changed the angle, bumping against Sherlock's arsehole. Sherlock moaned loudly.

He snaked his hand down the mattress in the direction of his cock but again John was faster.

"Ah, no," he said almost cruelly and snatched his wrist and brought it up over Sherlock's head, repeating the process with the other arm. With one hand he pinned both wrists to the bed. John pressed his knees closer. It was not elegant, far from it. He had almost no leverage, holding Sherlock's wrists with the one hand and not wanting to lift himself off the man's back, letting him feel his weight. His hips were doing all the work, pressing up and down, between the hot and lube-wet flesh of Sherlock's thighs. John was building up a sweat, fast, and grew harder. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the air accompanied by the unmistakable scent of sex.

It was becoming too much already and he had to pause.

"Don't you dare moving," John warned Sherlock as he let go of his wrists and stopped his movements for a moment. With both hands free now, John pushed them under Sherlock's chest and felt for his nipples, finding them, pinched them between his thumbs and index fingers. Again he bit at Sherlock's shoulder, enough to leave a mark. He took up the rutting against the soft curve of his arse again. Sherlock cursed and curled his spine, pressing his chest into John's hands and his arse against his groin. It was beautiful. He lifted them up from the bed a couple of centimetres and John cheered the new angle, speeding up.

"I'm gonna-," he said. John drew back his cock from between Sherlock's thighs, wet with lube and pre-ejaculate, and dragged it along the crack of his arse once, daubing that. He stroked his prick a couple of times and came all over Sherlock's arse, letting his come flow freely down the crack over his balls and the sheets underneath. Still half blissed-out John caught some of his come and pushed it into Sherlock with his finger, drawing another deep groan from the man. Fascinated he looked at his finger playing around the hole, pushing in around the milky-white fluid.

"Please, John," Sherlock almost begged and pulled John out of his reverie. He let himself fall down against him, mindful to push his softening, still half-hard cock back in between his thighs. Sherlock moaned frustrated when he pinned down his wrists again.

"I'm going to release you in a moment," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, voice rough. John had come, but it was far from over. "When I do, you get ten strokes. You will count them out loud. You either come or don't, I don't care. After that, there's no touching yourself for the rest of the night, and if I have to tie you up. Am I understood?"

"Yes," pitiful, pathetically weak and pleading with him, Sherlock needed release so desperately. John counted to thirty in his head, giving an occasional push with his hips always prompting a moan. He rolled off Sherlock carefully and then released his wrists. Embarrassingly fast Sherlock's right hand flew to his cock, gripping it. Sherlock rolled his hips a little, lifting, resting on one elbow to give his hand room to work. He started stroking. His shaky voice saying the numbers filled the room.

John watched every stroke raptly. At number five, he took his own flaccid prick in hand and pressed the glans against Sherlock's arsehole. It slipped in easily, lube and come and wanton paving the way. He could feel the man shudder and give one last stroke, then come, clenching hard around the head of John's cock. It was almost enough to make him hard again.

"That's it," he whispered entranced. Before Sherlock stopped shuddering, John already manhandled him back into his embrace, shoving, pushing, arranging the curve of his arse just so that John's cock was clenched between Sherlock's buttocks. They would be glued together once their combined fluids have dried, but he could hardly care less. He pulled the duvet back over their bodies and settled in for sleep, with a possessively splayed hand back over Sherlock's stomach, counting the beats of his heart as it calmed down slowly.

* * *

It was a one-off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially done with this chapter, I'm sorry. Everytime I touch it to edit it it just gets *longer* and more complex. There's a lot going on this time, bear with me, I believe the end came out well enough. Not edited, because I'm tired of this 5k word monster.
> 
> Also, one more chapter after this or maybe two, because it seems I'm not too sick of this story and still come up with stuff.
> 
> Some people expressed their concern about the ending of the last chapter ;) As a reminder, it ended with John and Sherlock having sex, and  
> 'It was a one-off.'

Kind of.

They did discuss sex. Sherlock wasn't shy, he wanted to make that crystal clear, he just wasn't ready for it yet. Touching, cuddling, caressing, kissing, yes. Holding hands, if John wanted to (he didn't, mostly). Only no sex for another while. Romantic nonsense. Terms of endearment. That sort of things. John took offense against the word 'nonsense'. It most-assuredly was not, he said.

* * *

There was something wrong with the body. Sherlock couldn't pinpoint it. He kept staring at the corpse, but there were too many people and some were talking and every last one of them did things that were disrupting his concentration. He had asked, but Lestrade would only give him five minutes alone with the body. The five minutes were up and now, Sherlock had to share his scene with imbeciles.

Still, he kept looking, from a distance, the better to view the whole scene, his gaze fixed on the corpse's right arm lying on the ground. Something about it. Something out of place. Something so obvious, *obvious*, even John saw it. John circled the body and knelt down next to it, picked up its arm. He was blocking whatever he did from view with his body. It didn't matter, the scene was saved to Sherlock's brain. He kept staring. And it was like this, when Sgt Donovan spoke to him.

"Gawking at John's arse now, are you? You know, people *are* talking." To which Sherlock rolled his eyes, demonstratively.

"I hardly think there's anything to looking at one's partner's behind." Sherlock drawled without giving her the satisfaction of looking caught, or even looking at her. He wasn't even staring at John, he was simply staring at the body, presently hidden *behind* John. Leave it to Donovan to see only what she wanted to see.

But it only did occur to Sherlock that he might have misspoken when he heard Donovan's jaw dropping next to him. Quickly, he replayed what he had said in his mind, checking for implications he hadn't intended to put there.

Ah, 'partner'.

People associate varied meanings with the word. To be fair, though, Sherlock actually had meant what Donovan probably understood. Still, it might cause some problems. Sherlock wasn't exactly authorised to tell her.

Careful to not let any doubts show on his face, he dismissed her and walked over to where John was crouched next to the body.

"Hey, Sherlock, have you seen the watch?" John asked when he became aware of him.

"Yes, right wrist, left-handed. Listen. I may have accidentally outed us to the Yard." Sherlock put on his best puppy dog eyes and schooled his face into a mask of guilty apology. But of course, John saw right through it. He always did that. It had become so difficult to lie to him. Even though Sherlock truly was sorry. It was just, they had never discussed the state of their relationship and he wasn't sure if he was allowed to tell people.

"What did you do?" Honestly, Sherlock had expected more rage than that. John sounded ... exasperated. Tired. He didn't need to pinch the bridge of his nose, his tone did that for him.

"I have referred to you as my 'partner'."

"In what context? We often say 'partner', it has never bothered anyone."

"We were talking about looking at your backside." And now John gaped at him. For a moment his eyes were very big and fixed incredulously on Sherlock, before they shrunk back to their normal size while at the same time a grin spread on his face.

"You were checking out my arse?" He asked, containing a laugh but barely.

"I was not!" Sherlock replied indignantly, immediately.

"You so were! I didn't take you for an arse man." John obviously found the whole thing absurdly amusing.

"I'm not. I was not checking out your arse!" Sherlock looked disgusted by the allegation, which only helped to intensify John's obvious delight. He hissed the words at John. For a moment they stared at each other heatedly with very different emotions written over their faces. Then, Sherlock caught himself, and asked, "You aren't mad then?"

"No, I'm not. Not the way I would've preferred, but no way of changing it now, I suppose." John shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the body in front of them, becoming more serious. "What do you make of the watch being put on upside down?" It was Sherlock's turn to gape.

"It's upside down!" He cried, jumping to his feet. "Lestrade!"

* * *

"I hate the word 'partner'," Sherlock complained one night, while they were lying in bed. He had John's back against his chest, caressing his side and thigh with light strokes of his hand. Sherlock had experimented, of course he had, with different strokes, strengths, sometimes only some fingers or one and sometimes his palm or the back of his hand and he had found the one way that was always making John relax into his embrace. It always ended with their hands, interlaced, on John's hip. It was, Sherlock had to confess, disgustingly domestic. And nice. He had to admit that, too. Very nice.

"Hm?" John hummed almost asleep.

"'Partner'. I hate it. It's revoltingly ambiguous."

"Alternatives?" John was too tired to speak in whole sentences. Leave it to Sherlock to bring up important topics when he was a second away from sleeping. Sherlock snorted.

"Boyfriend. Lover," he spoke the words with utter dislike. "Not alternatives." John caught the fact that the topic *was* important enough to Sherlock to be fully awake for so he roused himself. He turned around in Sherlock's arms to face the other man and slipped his arms around his torso. He brushed his thumbs over Sherlock's ribs.

"Yeah, I get it. There's no way I will ever introduce you as my lover. Boyfriend. Too old for that. What's wrong with partner? I thought that's what you said in same-sex relationships?"

"People will think we work together."

"We *do* work together," John reminded him and could see that Sherlock barely even listened to him. It was one of those conversations where John's part was more that of a sounding board, never mind the issue affected him just as much. He sighed and let his head drop against Sherlock's shoulder.

"There must be another word we could use, one people will have no chance to misinterpret," Sherlock carried on over John.

"Significant other? Sweetheart?" At least it provoked a reaction and John was back in the conversation. Sherlock looked at him even more disgusted than the word 'lover' has left him.

"Husband is good. Spouse." John searched Sherlock's face for signs he was kidding. He found none.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked therefore.

"Of course not. There's only one meaning when I refer to you as 'my husband' or 'my spouse'."

"Yeah, only one problem." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "We're not married."

"Oh, that. I suppose fiancé would work just as well."

"Yeah. Sherlock," John disentangled himself from Sherlock's arms around his back and sat up against the headboard. He switched on the lamp on his bedside table to see better. Sherlock stayed lain on his side and looked up at him. "We're not getting married, *or* engaged, just so you have a more unambiguous way of referring to me."

"It wouldn't only benefit *me*," Sherlock argued. "I hear it's also good for tax reasons." He said it in an air that made clear he had no idea what those reasons might be.

"You have never even done your taxes! I do them for you."

"But if we were married you would only have to fill out one form. That's an advantage." John ran his hand over his head and took a calming breath.

"This is ridiculous. Sherlock, please listen to me. Taxes are not the reason you're getting married. Nor descriptors. The only reason you're getting married for is because you love somebody and you want to spend the rest of your life with them." Strange that John even had to explain that. Sherlock groaned as if in pain and shut his eyes.

"Ugh, you're such a romantic!" He said the word like he meant it as an insult, which, knowing him, it probably was. John rolled his eyes, which Sherlock didn't see because he still had his eyes closed to add dramatic effect. So John forced himself to breathe calmly and counted to ten in his head.

"You sometimes think we're doing things the wrong way around?" He asked when he was finished. Intrigued, Sherlock opened one eye and peered at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, think about it. We met, moved together the next day. Then we started sleeping in the same bed, *then* we became a couple and now we're talking marriage. And we haven't even kissed yet! I know you don't have much experience, but that is not the way it's normally done," John explained.

"Normal's boring."

"Yeah, but I don't want our first kiss to be our wedding kiss, either. That's too crazy for me." Sherlock deemed what he said worthy enough to look at him through both eyes. After a moment of contemplation he sat up abruptly and leaned in to John.

"Do you want to kiss?" He whispered centimetres away from John's lips. It had happened so fast John felt dizzy. His eyes fell to Sherlock's lips, soft pink so close, he licked his own, unconsciously.

"Yeah," he whispered. Sherlock smirked smugly and leaned closer. Just before their lips touched, John put a hand against his chest, stopping him. He backed away a little, bringing more space between them.

"Not like this." Bemused Sherlock sat back on his heels.

"How?" He asked. John lifted his hand and cupped his jaw. Without meaning to Sherlock leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a split second before gazing at John again.

"A first kiss is pure magic. We will remember this for the rest of our lives," he said earnestly, daring Sherlock to mock the romantic in him. "I want my last first kiss to be special," he then went on. "Not to get it over with, to prove a point. Do you understand?"

Sherlock contemplated him. He searched John's face, his bright blue, honest eyes and tried to understand. He couldn't. But he knew John, and John wanted to make this special, whatever special meant, and that was all Sherlock needed to know to wait. So he nodded his consent, of course.

"Good," John said. He let his hand fall from Sherlock's jaw down against the length of Sherlock's neck slowly, lastly running it over his shoulder and down his arm to grasp his hand in his. He pulled Sherlock's hand up and pressed a kiss against the knuckles.

"Thank you."

* * *

And after that, things turned ... interesting.

John came from the shower one day, dressed only in his dressing gown and went to the underwear drawer to look for clothes. Except he only found one pair of underwear on his side. Which was strange, because he had done the laundry just the other day. And it weren't even pants he recognised, he only assumed they were his because they lay left. It was his size, though. So he put them on.

The same thing happened in the wardrobe. His side, or more his third, was empty except for one shirt and one pair of trousers, both things that he actually knew he owned, but not very often wore because they were 'too nice' for every day purposes. He put them on, because he was getting chilly and it was the only thing there.

Suspecting the worst he went to the socks drawer and opening that was surprised when he was able to choose a pair to his liking. Of course John knew what, or rather, *who* had happened to his clothes.

"Sherlock!" he yelled once he was fully dressed and ran down the stairs. "What the *fuck* have you done to all my clothes?" he asked annoyed. He was fearing for the worst.

"I experimented on them. They're all dirty. I will have them back to you, clean, by tomorrow," Sherlock said bored.

"*All* my clothes. They're *all* dirty?" John didn't believe it for a second.

"Yes, John, that is what I said," Sherlock said again sounding terrifyingly bored. He did, however, look at John from out of the corner of his eye, looking him over slowly, appreciatingly. "I don't see why you complain. I left you some and even you, with your dismal taste, have to admit you look rather dashing today," he said and shook out his paper to signal the end of the conversation. John narrowed his eyes. He began suspecting something and Sherlock hid.

"How thoughtful of you. And rather convenient, isn't it? I seem to remember you liking this shirt," he said and Sherlock kept silent. For a while, while John glared at him, giving him the chance to explain and/or apologise and/or confess to his crimes.

"If you're worried about the state of your clothes-", Sherlock started and was immediately interrupted.

"You'll give me money for new ones and *I* will buy them. Don't think for a minute I don't know what's going on here, my *dear*," John said acidly. He wouldn't let Sherlock clothe him, no matter what the did 'accidentally'.

His clothes were back unharmed the next morning when he came out of the shower. All but his underpants, half of them were still missing and replaced by hatefully nice looking substitutes. They felt nice to his skin, too.

* * *

And that's how it was, sometimes, from then on. Some mornings, John would open the wardrobe and find everything gone but for one shirt or one pair of trousers. Grudgingly, he put on what he found. His underwear, it was replaced fast, one piece every day until all that was left had been picked out by Sherlock. John never found out what happened to the old ones, even though he pestered Sherlock about it for a while. In the end, he was sure, they had been shredded to pieces and then, most probably, been burned. He couldn't imagine Sherlock doing anything less dramatic with them.

Sometimes it troubled him, thinking about Sherlock picking out his pants especially since Sherlock didn't very often see him in those and John couldn't fathom another reason for going to such lengths. At night, as long as it was cold out, John wore pyjamas. Only as it got slowly warmer he slept in his pants every now and then, but even then Sherlock didn't really look at him for long.

The days when Sherlock picked out his complete outfit John was without exception treated to a meal at a nice restaurant. He labelled those days 'date night' even though Sherlock never commented on those occasions. Still, he couldn't help but feel excited when he opened the wardrobe after a shower and found only some pieces left. Generally, those were good days.

After some weeks of that Sherlock became lazy. Instead of hiding everything else, he just picked some things and laid them out on the bed, trusting John to get the hint. He did.

The first time that happened John was a little confused. Sherlock was usually very attentive to details, but he'd forgotten to put out underwear for him. Somehow and strangely, it disturbed John somewhat. He began worrying about Sherlock, and then caught himself and thought that if he wanted to worry about someone, that someone should be him. A grown man, being dictated what to wear. It had been 35 years since somebody had last lain out clothes for him in the morning.

That day, they were called to a crime scene. Lestrade pointed out something he thought important, but Sherlock barely heeded him.

"Look, all I'm saying is, maybe you've forgotten to look for it," Lestrade said. Sherlock straightened up and levelled a strict gaze first at him, and then at John. He kept his eyes fixed on John as he said, "I never forget anything." John blushed to the roots of his hair, not doubting for a moment what he was talking about.

The next time Sherlock laid out an outfit for him without pants, John didn't wear pants.

It wasn't nearly as disturbing as he had anticipated. In fact, it was arousing. All day John expected people to call him out on his lack of underwear but it seemed as if nobody noticed, even though, and there simply was no other way of describing it, Sherlock paraded him around a lot that day. John could feel his eyes on his arse all day but he didn't catch Sherlock actually staring once. Maybe it was wishful-thinking.

* * *

Then one night Sherlock observed John undressing for bed. Getting ready for bed in each other's company was not unusual for them, if rare, given their different bed times. Normally they talked or were silent, each occupied with their own pyjamas. Not this time, though.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and levelled his gaze at John as he started unbuttoning his shirt. At first he didn't notice anything amiss, but he looked up when Sherlock didn't answer a question and found his eyes fixed on his torso.

"What are you doing?", he asked warily. Sherlock shook his head.

"Go on," he urged and nodded at him. Confused John continued undressing, aware of Sherlock's staring. He didn't think it was him Sherlock was staring at. Sherlock often gazed into space without looking at something particular.

But John never lost sight of Sherlock's eyes after that and he noticed them following his hands. He felt uncomfortable unzipping his jeans and stepping out of them a moment later, a little confused and massively aroused, then confused at his arousal. There was no way Sherlock wouldn't notice the bulge in his pants now.

At last he stood in front of Sherlock in only his underwear, hands hanging limply by his side and not knowing what to do next, John waited for something from the man, an explanation or maybe even an instruction.

"Erm, Sherlock?" he asked when it became clear Sherlock wouldn't talk. Sherlock ignored the question. His gaze crept over John's exposed body, head to toe, arms, legs, long moments on his injured shoulder, then all the way back again. Lastly, their eyes met. Sherlock's gaze was ... maybe cold? No, emotionless? Hard and soft at the same time. He lifted his hand and made a spinning notion with his index finger. John huffed an incredulous laugh.

"Really?" he said, "You're kidding," and did not turn around for Sherlock. Instead Sherlock got up from the bed and started walking around him, slowly, taking him in from every direction. John didn't know what to feel. It *felt* ridiculous. But he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and having Sherlock's unperturbed attention was intoxicating, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

When Sherlock had finished his circle around John, he came to stop in front of him again. John felt flushed.

"Strip," Sherlock ordered calmly. Only John's pants were left and he felt shy about losing them now, and self-conscious. Still, he wasn't about to disobey a direct order when it washed over him in that voice.

So, John took off his pants, swiftly and threw them onto the pile of his other discarded clothes in the corner of the room. He folded his hands in front of his erect penis anticipating Sherlock's reprimand. Sherlock tutted but let him have this little privacy.

"You're gorgeous," he said lowly after another circle around John and nodded. "You may dress now." Sherlock sat back on the bed and handed him his pyjamas, never taking his eyes off John as he put them on.

When they lay in bed, with John dumbstruck by what had just transpired, and Sherlock manhandled his arse against his groin, John desperately wanted to feel an erection pressed against him. But there was none. He could have sworn he caught arousal in Sherlock's eyes earlier, still there was no physical proof of it. It was all so confusing, John didn't know what to make of it.

* * *

Afterwards, whenever he got the chance, Sherlock watched John dress or undress. Always silent, always no sign of arousal other than his blown pupils.

* * *

John dressed carefully. He was frustrated. Sherlock's eyes... they never left him. He watched every minute movement with rapt attention, leant back in the chair, the picture of idle relaxation. John's hands shook. Usually he was so calm. It was difficult to fasten the buttons of his shirt in this state.

It took him longer than normal to finish. John's shoulders where tense, his skin wrapped tight over his muscles. It prickled on the edge of unpleasant. The hair on the back of John's neck and arms stood up even though he wasn't frightened, Sherlock never frightened him.

It was unnerving. The power he had over John. By sitting down, legs crossed over, hands lazily laid onto the arms of the chair, his body language signing open, relaxed, approachable. And John grew hard. By simply seeing him sit there, feeling his eyes on his body. But never aroused. Sherlock was never aroused. If it wasn't for his eyes and the pupils blown wide, John wouldn't even guess he enjoyed the show.

This time, it was enough. John had to know.

He finished dressing and took a calming breath. Then, unwavering, he walked the two metres to where Sherlock sat, the other man reacted instantly. He straightened his legs and sat forward. Giving no time to second thoughts, John straddled him in the chair. He was taller his way. He looked down into Sherlock's open face, open for once, for him, he could see his own face mirrored in giant black eyes and was blinded by want. John bent down and captured Sherlock's lips with his. Sherlock leant forward slightly, straightening up for the kiss and took John's face into his hands, pulling his head closer. He licked at John's bottom lip and John opened his mouth in invitation. Greedily Sherlock invaded his mouth and he let him. His tongue brushed over John's teeth and his palate, tasting him. Washed over the sharp edge of his upper incisors.

John tilted his head to give him easier access. Sherlock rejoiced over the new angle. He grabbed at John's thighs and squeezed them hard. He slid his hands upwards with his thumbs on the seam of John's jeans on the inside of his legs, tickling him delightfully. Sherlock went for his buttocks but not without grazing John's cock through his trousers with his thumb first. John shuddered under his touch.

With his hands on John's arse, Sherlock pushed their groins together. He pulled at John and slid forward in the chair at the same time, giving John's knees more room and their crotches the requisite contact. There was no doubt of the state of Sherlock's arousal, now. John felt his dick pressing up against the fabric of his trousers eager to be touched.

Sherlock kissed like a man possessed, John could do almost nothing but let him. He tried caging his tongue playfully which ended in Sherlock making delighted sounds into his mouth. John was left giddy with joy at those sounds. He slung his arms around Sherlock's chest and clutched at his shoulder-blades, feeling his back muscled move under his hands. Sherlock wasn't still. His whole body moved under John. His hands were glued to John's buttocks for now, kneading the flesh, but it didn't stop him from using his arms to move John against him. He let one leg fall down and pushed his other knee up into John's crotch, the pressure enough to be hurtful it John hadn't been so aroused and still needing *more* of that. Now, Sherlock brushed his hands up under John's shirt and brought them right back to their rightful place on his arse, but this time under his trousers and under his pants. John's shout of surprise was muffled by Sherlock's mouth.

It was getting hot and it was getting cramped. They needed air, but Sherlock was unwilling to let John's mouth go, only giving him a second a time for a shallow breath. As ever defying nature, Sherlock, who didn't need sleep or sustenance seemingly didn't even need air and John loved him just the more for that.

Sherlock grabbed even harder at John's arse, which shouldn't have been possible, and stood up gracefully and suddenly. John gasped in surprise and clung tighter to him, he crossed his legs around his hips and hoped he wouldn't fall down, if only because it would put a damper to their activities. But gravity didn't even get a chance to work against him, John was thrown onto the bed so fast and Sherlock flung himself between his legs, John just had time to prop himself onto his elbows and welcome Sherlock into his arms before they fell against the pillows together, their lips once more glued together. It was John's time now, Sherlock relinquished his control over the kiss.

John went at it more leisurely. He stroke his tongue over Sherlock's, challenged him to a duel. He felt the muscle move against his and went to explore the different textures at the different points, Sherlock's tongue always following his path and copying him.

Further down, their hands fought a similar war against their shirts. John wanted Sherlock naked, now, no not wanted, he needed him, but the stupid tiny buttons on his shirt where putting up quite the fight. Impatiently he tore at the fabric until it ripped under his hands with an ugly noise. Sherlock howled, pleased. He yanked his lips from John's mouth, John whimpered, but Sherlock bent over and bit at his right nipple through his own shirt and John groaned ecstatically. He took advantage of Sherlock newly undressed chest and gripped at it. He was too excited to be gentle to skin that bruised too easily under attention. He could tell Sherlock didn't mind judging by the sounds he made whenever John did something new to him.

Sherlock was constantly making little noises of joy, he was thoroughly enjoying himself and it was endearing him ever more to John how enthusiastically his hands roamed John's body, coming back to his arse every time they strayed somewhere else. He was a lot more successful at handling buttons when he unbuttoned John's jeans. He didn't bother with his shirt, though, only shoved that up to his armpits. He shifted lower on the bed and pressed his face into John's belly, licking his navel, doing perverse things to it with his tongue. Above him John let out a constant stream of hoarse groans.

Sherlock freed on of his hands from its spot on John's arse and pushed it into the front of his pants, without preamble, and fished out his hard cock, guiding it to his mouth and closing his lips around the head.

"Fuck!" John screamed and threw his head back. Sherlock gazed up at his face but John didn't see anything through his eyes, closed tightly, rolled back in his head. Sherlock chuckled and it sent obscene vibrations through John's cock. With an audible plop Sherlock disengaged from his dick and moved up to recapture John's lips. John surrendered them without fight. Sherlock had a tight grip around his cock and again, it would be painful if John were able to feel anything but bliss in this moment.

He could feel Sherlock fumble at his own trousers but couldn't muster the energy to care until he felt another cock touch his. John's eyes shot open, taking in first Sherlock's ecstatic face inches from his and then, bending his head, because he *had* to see, he looked at their two dicks alongside each other, rubbing against each other on his stomach. It was almost too much. John groaned and fell back again, ceded control over whatever happened to Sherlock, because he was out, he had to *feel*, he had wanted this too long to care.

Their combined precome acted as lubricant as Sherlock rutted against John. He had to withdraw another hand from its place on John's arse, a place it loved so much. Before it went reluctantly it pressed one finger against John's anus and slipped in a centimetre, making John weep. It added fire to one more area on his body, a body that was half in flames already. He didn't know where to concentrate on and dropped the attempt. Fire everywhere. That was okay. Sherlock.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around their cocks and spread their come over them, then started stroking shakily. It was slow, it was agonizing, it was imprecise and it was too forceful and most of all it was fuel to the fire and John came and the spasms through his prick made Sherlock's spasm as well and then he came, too, and it landed on John's stomach and chest and bits even at his chin and he so couldn't care.

Sherlock slumped down on him and buried his head in the crook of John's neck, their twitching cocks trapped between them. Come spread between them like glue.

A moment later, with a last effort, Sherlock rolled off him. They lay next to each other, sweaty, panting, satisfied, grinning. Utterly debauched. John's shirt ridden up around his ribs, Sherlock's hair giving 'unruly' a new depth.

"Memorable enough for a first kiss?" Sherlock asked when his breathing was back to normal. He smiled at his partner.

"Definitely," John panted. "Definitely won't tell the grand-children about that, but yeah." He gulped air. "Definitely."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As opposed to the last chapter, I loved writing this one. I hope you enjoy reading it.

"'s nice. Like it." John sighed contentedly, almost drunken on idle content, and shut his eyes. It was night, the full moon shone through the window Sherlock had opened hours before to let in the pleasantly warm spring air. It was past one a.m. and neither man could sleep, not for the heat, maybe because of the full moon. They'd lain in bed for well over an hour, awake, engaged in their thoughts. From time to time one would say something, sparking a short conversation before ultimately turning back into their own heads. It was an easy silence.

"Of course you would. You're so touchy."

"Hey!"

"Oh you know what I mean." Sherlock was propped on one elbow over John and leisurely painted intricate geometric figures into John's naked chest with the tip of his index finger and watching him so intently as if he could see the shapes the was drawing. John had gone to bed without a shirt. They both did that sometimes. They had shared too much already to be embarrassed about a little naked skin.

Sherlock had started caressing John absent-mindedly. He had lain on his side facing John, deep in thought, when his hand had reached out. At first it had only hovered over John's stomach, an inch over the concave valley where his ribs started, as if seeking the heat. John had observed him, keenly, interestedly. Sherlock often did things he wasn't aware of when he was deep in thought. He sucked in a breath when finally Sherlock's hand came to lie down above his navel, pressing in gently, his fingers splayed lightly. Even though Sherlock's eyes were trained on his hand, it was obvious to John that he didn't take in anything until the moment his thumb started stroking along the sharp, protruding line of John's rib, inducing a low moan. His eyes shot up at the sound of it, locking onto John's, then shooting down again and noticed what he was doing, surprised. He had looked back up again, and belatedly, silently, asked for permission with his eyes. John granted it equally silent. There was nothing he'd ever keep Sherlock from doing.

It had led them to this moment, Sherlock half hovering over John with his chest painted from collarbone to ribs in invisible script, his breathing a little more shallow than normal. Their blanket was bunched up around their hips, the fabric concealing his growing erection for now. Sherlock cast an almost shy, quick look up at John before he drew a perfect circle around John's left nipple.

"Mmm," John groaned and lightly arched his chest into the touch. Sherlock flushed a little, barely noticeable in the silver light of the moon. He bowed his head and put his lips over where his finger had been moments before. His hand ran around John's rib cage and came to rest under his shoulder-blade to press him up into Sherlock's mouth. John complied, helped with arching more. Testing what he could do, Sherlock flicked his tongue over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a louder groan from the man under him. He closed his lips around the nipple and gently pulled on it. Encouraged by John's beautiful reactions he softly bit down with his teeth, pulling a little harder.

"Jesus," John hissed breathlessly. Sherlock let the nipple slip from between his teeth and soothed the flesh with his wet, warm tongue. John started writhing as Sherlock's hand slipped down along his side and came to a stop where the blanket was bunched up. He lifted his head, lifted his mouth from John's chest to steal a look at the other man's face. His chin rested on his sternum. His eyes met with a warm gaze, John's look indescribably soft and loving. He cupped Sherlock's head in his right hand and they smiled at each other. His fingers tangled in the dark curls at the nape of Sherlock's head, tugging. Sherlock leaned into his palm.

"I swear, if you kiss me now, I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to tell up from down," John said, his crude words in contrast to the sentiment written all over his face. Sherlock smiled wider at him. It was his warm smile, a smile only John ever got to see, where his eyes are dark with fond affection.

“Is that a thread or a challenge?” Sherlock asked slyly.

“Maybe you should find it out yourself,” John purred.

Sherlock bowed his head again and lifted himself up a little. He bestowed John's chest with a thousand open-mouthed, lazy, slow kisses while his hands worked on parting his legs. He drew John's left knee up and moved between his legs, settling so that his own chest rested over his lower abdomen, putting gentle pressure on his crotch area and his hand grabbing harder at the thigh under its palm, kneading. He had to pull away the blanket and thrown it to the side. There was no mistaking the tent in John's pants where his full erection strained against the fabric, begging to be freed. But it wasn't time for that yet.

Sherlock lay his head down on John's right hip and resumed his unhurried drawing on the soft parts of his belly. He breathed in the heavy scent of John's arousal, imagining what it would smell like later, without the fabric obscuring its pure essence. John was trying to restrain himself and wait for Sherlock's move but every now and then he gave an involuntary thrust with his hips making Sherlock's chin to come into contact with the bulge in front of him and a delicious sound from deep within John's throat.

With time John's precome seeped through the cloth to leave a dark spot and thickened the smell of arousal around Sherlock. Turning his head from its hard cushion of John's hipbone he buried his nose in the bulge, his tongue flicked out to taste at the spot.

"Fuck," John whispered, drawing out the single syllable to previously unknown lengths. Sherlock alternately lapped at the swelling inside John's pants or put little soft kisses on it. He had to steady John, put his hands on his hips to keep him from thrusting into Sherlock's face.

"Please, Sherlock." Sherlock took pity on him and rolled off him to take off his last piece of clothing. He threw the pants over his shoulder carelessly; he wouldn't be needing them any more that night. He repositioned between John's legs and laid his thighs over his shoulders, put his hands under John's arse and grabbed at the flesh there. John's cock, hard and fat and full of blood, slapped against his belly. It leaked precome onto his skin, glistening there in the silver light of the room that tinted everything in blacks and whites. Sherlock gave his testicles a short, teasing peck before he drew his mouth away over John's thigh. His tongue was painting the path. He lapped at the spot where his thigh met pelvic, sucking at the skin there, biting down gently on a spot where you didn't need force to be felt. John moaned obscenely and it was music to Sherlock's ears. His hand rubbed up to John's knee and he pulled it outside. Sherlock turned his head and licked at the inner side of his knee, tickling and arousing at the same time.

"Careful," John warned when his leg spasmed involuntarily. Sherlock took the warning and moved upwards. He spent long minutes on John's thigh, kissing and biting and leaving marks and when there was finally no more thigh left and John began to hope, Sherlock switched legs and began anew.

"Nooo." John threw his head back into the pillow heavily, audibly, frustration clear in his voice. Sherlock merely chuckled and kissed more lightly, more playfully. John's cock throbbed, he could feel it on his belly. A pool of precome had collected there, uncomfortably cold in the otherwise warm night air. Sherlock didn't spend as much time on the left leg and inched his body upwards a little, repositioning himself higher on John. John took a deep breath and tensed in anticipation. But again Sherlock passed John's cock, in favour of licking at the little pool of precome. John started wondering if it was possible to come just from licking and was sure if it was, he'd find out, that night.

He got little rewards for his angelic patience whenever Sherlock's tongue accidentally came into contact with his glans. John focused on those tiny moments. But they gradually became more frequent until at last Sherlock was tentatively licking at his slit, scooping out every drop of come he could get. It were only mere millimetres but it felt as if his whole tongue was slowly burying itself in John's dick and he throbbed still harder, giving Sherlock what he was looking for. The vein at the underside of his cock swelled and he was short of coming from the little stimulation.

Sherlock tore his tongue away and retouched it a second later to the base of his cock to sweep it languidly up along the line of that vein until he was back at the tip. There, he took the glans into his mouth in one greedy swoop, swirling his tongue around it. He eased deeper, pressing his tongue against the underside of John's dick and sucking around it, hollowing his cheeks. Sherlock hadn't used his hands once. His head was bobbing up and down in short thrusts while his tongue twirled around sloppily. Precome and spit mixed to run down John's cock and into his pubic hair. He came after a minute, his hands fisted into the sheets beneath him, his hips thrusting. His come spilled over, out of Sherlock's mouth at the sides. Sherlock let go of his cock and brushed the come away with the back of his hand, wiping that on the sheet. He heaved himself up on the bed and fell down heavily next to John, their shoulders and arms touching. He looked at John's profile until the man's breathing had slowed down and he faced Sherlock, a big grin on his face. He took Sherlock's head into his hand and pulled the man half over him to press a deep kiss onto his lips, his tongue licking his mouth open to taste himself on the other man's tongue. He swept the last taste of come away and sucked greedily on Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock broke away to catch his breath. He rested his forehead on John's good shoulder, slumped down, with John's hand still on the back of his head. All of a sudden John started laughing, his trademark giggle, and Sherlock dared a small look from under his eye lashes up at him, still somewhat breathless.

"God, I love you! You're brilliant! You know that, right? Amazing, fucking, bloody amazing." Sherlock lifted himself up and crawled over John predatorily.

"You're easily impressed." He kissed John. "You say that about my deductions, too."

"It's true, though." John couldn't wipe the grin off his face and Sherlock was mirroring him.

"Go on then. Tell me what else I'm fucking, bloody amazing at," he prompted. John pushed at his shoulder, had him lie down on his back. He started nuzzling behind his ear, pressing gentle kisses against his neck.

"You make an amazing omelette,” he murmured against skin. Sherlock laughed.

"That's hardly difficult. I could teach you."

"Nuh uh. You're great at it. 'sides, I love when you cook for me. Never seen anyone swirl around in a coat like you. You're fucking gorgeous in that thing."

"Costumes." It was getting more difficult for Sherlock to concentrate as John's hand travelled down his body.

"Nope. You're fucking gorgeous wearing nothing at all, too. All you." He sneaked his hand under the waistband of Sherlock's pants and closed it around his hard cock. It was Sherlock's time to throw his head back and moan. John sprang at the opportunity to kiss more of his delectable neck.

"God I love your neck," he said between kisses.

"You-" Sherlock was interrupted when John started stroking his cock. "You love everything. Easy to--," he panted, lost his train of thought as John swept his thumb over his glans, spreading his own precome to make the strokes smoother.

"No," John whispered into his mouth. "Only you. I only love you." He kissed Sherlock but it was one-sided as Sherlock was too distracted to reciprocate by the hand on his dick. He was flushed brightly, from cheekbones to collar bones and really, fucking gorgeous. His breaths came in short, violent huffs and then he tensed and then he came and he relaxed.

John withdrew his hand from his pants and swiped it at the sheet. That would need to be replaced tomorrow, he thought. He lay down again, head turned to Sherlock, waiting for him to come back around.

After a while Sherlock shed his pants and threw them somewhere. He reached for the blanket where they had kicked it to the foot of the bed and pulled it back over them. He arranged John on his side and dragged his arse into his lap, shifting his hips until his limp and still wet cock was nestled nicely between John's buttocks. John let out an enthusiastic hum of approval. That would make for an interesting wake-up, he thought. Sherlock nuzzled against his shoulder and wrapped his arms tightly around John.

"You don't mind, do you?" He asked some minutes later, when John had almost fallen asleep.

"Hm?" John asked in confusion.

"What you said. That I … didn't say it back?" His voice had trailed off at the end. John was too tired to turn around so instead he patted the hand on his belly.

"No. I know you." He knew for a fact that Sherlock had never fallen asleep in a bed with somebody else before John and they had been doing it for months now. He also knew that the only love Sherlock had ever experienced was by the hands of his overbearing brother, who meant well but had been raised by the same people. He knew that to Sherlock, love was an abstract concept he couldn't understand other than that it was an important motivator in crimes and that he wasn't able to reconcile that knowledge with what he felt for John, and John was, frankly, okay with that. He didn't need him to say the words as long as he lived by their meaning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll wrap it up now. A compilation of tiny fluffy ideas and all, that I initially intended this story to be like.

"Hey, come to bed," John said quietly in the almost dark of the kitchen where Sherlock sat slumped over his microscope.

"Can't. Experiment," Sherlock said absently without looking up. He was wearing only his dressing gown over a shirt and pants and even though it was almost summer, it was quite cold in the kitchen that night. As Sherlock had the tendency to sit unmoving for hours when he was watching for a reaction under the lens John knew he would be stiff from cold and immobility by the time he finished. John sighed.

He stepped towards him and stopped only when he was directly behind Sherlock. Only hesitating shortly he closed his arms around the sitting man's chest and rested his head on his shoulder, turned to look at the living room. Sherlock tensed only a little but didn't move otherwise.

"What are you doing?" he asked with the barest hint of warning in his voice.

"Keeping you warm," John sighed contentedly. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but it was nice, nonetheless.

"Why are you doing that?" John shrugged half-heartedly.

"Dunno. You seemed cold."

"I wasn't."

"Doesn't matter." John wouldn't let himself be put off and Sherlock chose to ignore him. They spent more than twenty minutes like that before Sherlock let himself be dragged to bed. By that time his muscles ached but he would rather have died than admit that John's body warmth was more welcome than a hundred hot water bottles. He always so gloated over such things.

  


* * *

  


Sometimes John woke up in the middle of the night without a reason. It wasn't a nightmare, it wasn't Sherlock, it wasn't something in the room and yet he lay awake when a minute ago he had been under. It was one of those nights.

Above him, Sherlock was awake, too. Their positions in the bed had changed since they'd fallen asleep, instead of behind him, his partner was now draped over John with his head cushioned on his shoulder. John raised his hand and let his fingers card through the man's soft, dark curls, his fingers danced on the skin and Sherlock began humming quietly. A wave of almost unbearable affection washed over him at the sound. John inclined his head and put a light kiss to the part of Sherlock's head he could reach.

"Are you very awake? John whispered in the night.

"Hmmh," Sherlock hummed.

"Wanna make out?" Sherlock raised his head and his eyes gleamed in the dark.

"Always," he smirked and crawled up to take John's lips with his.

  


* * *

  


"When did you realise you loved me?" Sherlock asked. John contemplated the question.

"I don't know. About a year in? Sometimes I would look at you and think 'Christ, I really love that man'," he said pondering.

"A year? Why didn't you say something?"

John shrugged. "It's not exactly something you just spring on a bloke. 'Can you please buy milk, oh, and by the way, I love you and we're also out of tea'." He searched Sherlock's face attentively. "I think what you wanted to ask is when did I realise I was attracted to you. I didn't pine for you, you know?"

"Is there a difference?" Sherlock truly didn't know.

"Oh yes. You can love someone without being attracted to them, and you can be attracted to someone without loving them." Sherlock thought about it for a minute, surely trying to make out the different dates for himself.

"So? When did you realise that?" he asked after.

"I don't remember the exact occasion. It was sometime after we started sleeping together and before we started cuddling. But when we first that did that, I thought, yes, I would shag that." John laughed. Sherlock shook his head. "What about you, then?" John asked.

"Attraction, the first night." John gulped, Sherlock overlooked it. "'Shag that', as you put it, while I was gone." He hesitated. "Love... I'm still not sure about that." John felt now was the time for probing.

"What do you feel for me, then?"

"I don't know. I looked it up, I tried to find a word for it, but there is none," Sherlock said frustrated with the dictionary for failing him. "I loved my grandmother and on his good days, which means when I haven't seen him for weeks and he is also on the Continent, I might even love my brother or something akin to it." John grinned. He had always known the Holmes brothers secretly loved each other. Sherlock continued, "But you... you're so much more than that. You are the most important person, thing or otherwise in my life and without you it is inconceivable. I missed my grandmother after she died, but I'm sure I wouldn't survive _an hour_ if I lost you." He trailed off. John put his hand around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

"What you just described? That _is_ love, you idiot," he said fondly.

"No that can't be. It feels completely different."

"Okay. Then why don't we say, you love me and you like Mycroft?"

"I don't like Mycroft. I hate him." John sniggered.

"Alright. Then, you love me and you liked your grandmother and Mrs Hudson and you tolerate Mycroft." They leaned their foreheads against each other's.

"I suppose I could say that," Sherlock conceded and kissed him once more.

"I love you," John said.

"I love you as well," Sherlock answered. And, after another minute, "If Mycroft ever finds out I said that, I won't waste time finding his source. I will come straight for you."

  


* * *

  


Out of nowhere John started giggling. Sherlock turned to him, amused and a little confused.

"What's so funny?" he asked. John tried to catch his breath.

"Lestrade," he gasped. Sherlock screwed up his face.

"What about him?"

"He, he, he," John dried his eyes. "He asked me how you were," he finally got out and started laughing again.

"How I was?"

"But, his face, you should've seen his face." It took John a while to regain his composure. "He meant, how you are in a relationship, but the *way* he said it, it sounded like he wanted to know how you are in bed and I pointed that out and then he, he blushed and was all embarrassed. He _blushed_ , Sherlock!" John emphasised the word because he felt Sherlock didn't treat it with the ridicule the notion deserved.

"Yes?"

"And I, I didn't laugh at him, not right away, and he was so uncomfortable. Hah," he breathed out. "It was divine. Truly divine. I will mock him for the rest of my life for that." John seemed pleased with himself. Sherlock studied his profile on the pillow next to him. He didn't understand what was so funny about it, but it made John inexplicably happy, and that made Sherlock happy. He smiled.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock dragged him around the corner of the house, out of sight of the police. Stepping into his personal space, he bent John over backwards and kissed him fervently. John just had time to grab hold of Sherlock's scarf and clung to it like his life depended on it, as Sherlock took possession of his mouth.

His hand slid under John's shirt, because Sherlock always needed the skin contact. His thumbs pressed into his hips and his fingers clawed him closer. John shivered but it wasn't for the cold air on his lower abdomen.

"What else," Sherlock said into his mouth.

"Marvellous," John breathed.

"More, " demanded Sherlock.

"You're incredible. Breathtaking." They kissed for a couple of seconds longer, the sound of wet kisses filling the air around them.

"More," Sherlock asked again.

"Outstanding. Spectacular. Astonishing," John had to stop when Sherlock sucked on his tongue. Sherlock bent ever forward and his hands crept higher on John's back. His belly was exposed to the world and they were in the open, a fact they were reminded of when they heard Donovan's voice close by.

"Oi! Stop it! There are people around," she yelled at them. Sherlock tore himself from John's mouth reluctantly but kept his hands over his kidneys and their crotches pressed together. John wasn't sure he could keep calm if he looked at her so he didn't bother turning his head. He used the pause to catch his breath.

"Piss off! We're not fucking, this isn't outraging public decency," Sherlock said ugly. Donovan scowled at him. They threw insults around some more and then she left them be. Sherlock crowded John against the wall behind them and reached for his zip.

"I thought we weren't fucking," John said alarmed. It was the middle of the day and very bright out and the police was just some metres away.

"I lied," Sherlock said, took his mouth again and shoved his hand into his pants.

  


* * *

  


Most of the things they talked about they talked about in bed with the lights out.

"You've once said we're doing things backwards," Sherlock said one time. "Do you still feel this way? Do you think there's something missing?" John furrowed his brow.

"I still believe we did. But there isn't anything missing, no," he replied. Sherlock kept silent, only his hand moving about John's belly betrayed his flustered thinking. "Why, do you think there's something missing?" John asked after a while.

"I still believe we should get married." It took some time for Sherlock to answer and John swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. They hadn't addressed the issue after the first time.

"For tax reasons?" he asked cautiously when he felt he could trust his voice again. Sherlock snorted derisively.

"That was never the reason," he said condescendingly.

"Then, because you don't want to introduce me as your partner?" There was something in the pair of them that made people believe that when they said 'partner', they meant they worked together. It was only after strangers had spent some time in their company that they realised they were a couple. It took most people less than five minutes, but still, those few minutes always agitated Sherlock.

"I admit that _is_ a reason, but no, not what I meant either," Sherlock said. John was very silent. Carefully he thought of other reasons why Sherlock would want to get married but he always came back to _the one_. John didn't dare voice it, fearing he might be wrong and getting his hopes up only to see them crashed again.

Sherlock's hand drew circles on his belly until it came to a stop on John's left one. His fingers inched for John's ring finger and touched down where a ring would sit. He kissed him on the shoulder, pressing his warm body against John's back.

"Don't you think we should?" he asked quietly, "Do it?" He almost sounded fearful. John turned around in his arms and studied his face. Sherlock looked so sincere and a little afraid.

"Yes," John said with his voice strong and kissed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks.
> 
> Thank you for making it so far. I know this story isn't as good as it deserved to be, but I gave it my all. I could write so much more here, but I don't want to bore you. If you're interested, I wrote a post about writing this story on my tumblr, you can find it [here](http://yesilian.tumblr.com/post/67090264639/about-the-one-where-they-share-a-bed)

**Author's Note:**

> Also, pro-tip: Try to not write porn at work. You'll get crazy paranoid.


End file.
